Six O'clock Supper
by Selma
Summary: A snippet taken out of six-year-old Harry's life. He pays a standard visit to the doctor that has unforeseen repercussions via the Dursleys . . .
1. Hunger Pains

**Six O-Clock Supper (1/2)  
****By: Selma****  
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to J.K. Rowling; I'm only satisfying my morbid imagination.  
****Rated: PG******

**Part 1: Hunger Pains  
  
**

***

Harry knew he shouldn't be climbing trees.  The cramping pains had disappeared and he was now simply light-headed; but as he sat on a limb fifteen feet above the ground, Dudley's old trainers tied tightly to prevent them from falling off his feet, he knew that he was exactly where he wanted to be.

Leaning back against the sturdy trunk, he tipped his face up to look at the leafy canopy above him, pushing his glasses up his nose with one slightly grubby index finger.  His peripheral vision was blurred beyond the edges of the lenses, but this seemed to exacerbate the sensation of depth beneath him, and the branches above him began to spin.  Fixing his eyes on one young slender branch, his thighs tightened around the limb he was sitting on, his hands finding purchase in the ridged bark behind his waste.  The dizziness passed, and a breath escaped his lips as he watched the leaves flutter above him, the sun passing through them and creating brilliant hues, merging green upon green in a continuous dance.

Harry wasn't sure exactly why Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon hadn't allowed him to eat since breakfast yesterday, but he had a feeling it had something to do with the required visit to the nurse he had made after breakfast; required because he had turned six years old two weeks ago and had to undergo a standard physical before he was allowed to enter the first grade.  The curly-haired nurse had tapped on his knees, peered down his throat and ears, and weighed him.  She had also taken blood from the crook of his elbow with a truly ghastly looking needle.

She had held it poised in her hand, Harry's arm in her other hand and done up with a rubber glove tied firmly around his elbow.  He presumed that she had done this to prevent the blood from escaping to the rest of his body when she stabbed him with that needle and tried to take it.  Aunt Petunia stood stiffly in the opposite corner, and the nurse paused for a moment, looking at her.

"He's quite tense," she told her.  "Children often relax if the parent holds them in their lap.  Would you care to . . .?"

Harry looked at Nurse Hawthorne as though she had grown another head.  _Hold_ him?  Why would Aunt Petunia want to hold him?

Petunia drew herself up, her knuckles whitening on the bag she clutched in front of her person.  Harry had watched as her lips pursed tightly, as through to prevent entrance.

"I'm not his mother," she said in a flat voice.  Uncomfortable under Hawthorne's stare, she forced a smile and continued in a voice like honey dripped over brittle glass.

"Harry is a big boy, and it would only make him more uncomfortable if I were to hold him on my . . . lap.  Dear."

"Fine," clipped the nurse.  She had given Petunia a frosty look before turning her attention back to Harry.  She had a strange look in her eyes that Harry couldn't identify.

"It will only sting for a moment, sweetheart, much less than a bee sting.  You've had a bee sting, haven't you?"

Harry had nodded mutely, his eyes large behind his glasses.

Nurse Hawthorne had given him a kindly smile, and without hesitating, pushed the needle into his arm.  Harry jumped and jerked his face away.

"There, now.  There, now, Harry.  That wasn't so bad, was it?" she said, covering the area of penetration with a cotton swab.

Harry shook his head, this time in a jerky fashion.

"Now we have to wait for just a moment.  Just a moment longer, and you will be done!  Tell me, Harry, do you enjoy school?  What sports do you play?"

Harry had swallowed with some difficulty, and said quietly: "School is fine, and I don't play any sports."  His eyes had begun to slide in the direction of his arm again.

"Look at me, dear," Hawthorne had said quickly.  Capturing his eyes with her own, she gave him a commiserating wink.  "I'll bet that you're mighty fast, though."

Harry had been unaware that a fission of pride had lit up his eyes, which had told Hawthorne that he was indeed fast.

In her corner, Petunia had shifted impatiently from one foot to the other, and without glancing in her direction, Hawthorne deftly slipped the needle out of Harry's arm.

"There!  You're all done with this nasty business.  Now I'm going to test this blood and we're going to make sure that you're all in tip top shape—and here's a lolly for being such a brave lad."

The tasty sucker had nearly made up for the awful experience, Harry thought to himself.  The last time he had a sweet had been when he had managed to filch a couple small chocolate eggs from Dudley's Easter basket a few months earlier, which had been far richer than the sucker but no less satisfying.  

Nurse Hawthorne had ushered both him and Aunt Petunia out of her office before she disappeared somewhere to test his blood.  Harry had silently sucked on his sucker while Petunia stood with her arms crossed, tapping her foot and glancing at her watch every twenty seconds.  Hawthorne had returned ten terse minutes later and asked Petunia to speak with her privately in her office, shutting the door to Harry's curious ears.  Petunia had emerged five minutes later, her face more pinched than ever, but this time white with some unidentifiable emotion, a thin sheaf of papers clutched in her hand.  She marched straight for the exit, leaving Harry to hurry after her.  He hadn't eaten since.  

Harry swung his feet in a scissor kick.  He had a queer feeling in his stomach that had nothing to do with lack of food: he was not quite feeling up to going home.  Aunt Petunia had shooed him away from the kitchen for both yesterday and today's lunches, today's breakfast, and yesterday's dinner.  He knew that it was close to suppertime by the way the sun was making everything look golden and dusky; but he didn't want to go home and be shooed away from the table again.  Watching a squirrel wind around a topmost limb, he knew that he might have to resort to going to Mrs. Figg and ask her for something to eat, but he didn't want to; unfamiliar with how to label such feelings, he didn't realize that the uncomfortable squirming he felt at the very thought of asking for food from the neighbor was shame.

Taking a couple of deep breaths, he roused himself and climbed nimbly down the old oak.  As he walked home, he formulated a game plan in his head: first, he would ascertain whether he would be allowed to eat.  If he was allowed to eat: good.  If he wasn't allowed, he would sneak out of the house at the first available opportunity and hike it over to Mrs. Figg's—but this second plan was dependent on keeping himself from being locked in his cupboard.  If he was locked in there, he could forget the thought of getting out until morning—or perhaps even later, depending on when Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon let him out.  _But_ he could always make a quick get-away before they got their hands on him.  

As he cut across yards, a grim smile crept across his small face: Nurse Hawthorne had been right when she guessed that he was fast.  

***

_To be continued . . ._


	2. Realization

**Six O-Clock Supper (2/2)  
  
****By: Selma  
  
****Disclaimer: Everything belongs to J.K. Rowling; I'm only satisfying my morbid imagination.  
  
****Rated: PG  
  
****Part 2: Realization  
  
**

**Author's Notes: I had this rated PG-13 for this part, but upon writing it thought it wasn't that intense.  So now it's PG.**

And if Harry seems very mature for his age, I decided to keep him that way because I imagine he would have had to grow up fast in his environment.

***  
  


Approaching 4 Privet Drive on a thread of uncertainty, Harry cautiously pushed open the screen door leading to the kitchen.  Stealing a quick glance at the wall clock, he saw that the time was exactly six o'clock.  An intoxicating blend of delicious smells made his nose twitch, and turning his head, he saw that Uncle Vernon and Dudley were already seated at the dining room table leading off from the kitchen.  Standing unnoticed in front of the doorway, his feet pinned to the floor, he repeated to himself: _The door is right behind me.  It's right there.  If they won't let me eat, I will run as quickly as I can to Mrs. Figg's.  I can do it.  I can do it._

A surge of determination suffusing his limbs, he purposely moved toward the dining area.  Dudley was telling Uncle Vernon about his day.  

"And then, Daddy, I kicked the sand castle over!  It was a right good kick and sand flied everywhere!  Then a lady yelled at me for getting sand in that girl's eyes and breaking her castle so Mummy had to yell at her and tell her she shouldn't be making sand castles around little boys like me who like to kick them!"  Dudley's considerable girth puffed up yet more as he took a breath, his nose unusually pink.  "We telled that dumb lady, right Daddy?"

Harry realized from this enlightening tale that Aunt Petunia had taken Dudley to the beach today after she had snapped at Harry that morning to "get yourself out of the house and out of my hair."  Despite his empty stomach, Harry had been all too happy to oblige her request; it was far better to be exploring the neighborhood than amusing himself in his dark and dusty cupboard—or being "put to use" by pairing up Uncle Vernon's foul-smelling shoes, among other monotonous activities.

Despite his grand opportunity to be away from home—and his relatives—all day, Harry couldn't help but wish that he could have gone to the beach, too.  He had only been there once last summer when the Dursleys had been forced to take him along; Mrs. Figg hadn't been able to watch him, for she had had to tote one of her beloved yet sickly cats to the veterinarian.  Harry had enjoyed himself (and avoided Dudley, who found great sport in throwing sand in his face) by wandering along the water's edge, searching for shells and interesting rocks.  Unfortunately, his aunt and uncle hadn't bothered to put sunscreen on him and his skin had turned an angry red.  Still, Harry would like to go to the beach again; next time, he told himself, he would simply wear a shirt.  He still had those shells and rocks kept in a plastic baggie tucked safely away under the bed in his cupboard.

Harry suddenly found himself stumbling forward a bit as he was unexpectedly given a forceful nudge from behind.  "Where have you been, boy?"  He turned to see Aunt Petunia, whose face had a strange mixture of satisfaction and annoyance on it.  She was wiping her hands with a dishtowel.  "You were supposed to stay with Mrs. Figg while we went to the beach and the market," she snapped.  

"But you said to--"  

"Don't you sass your aunt, you filthy boy!" Uncle Vernon boomed.  "Look at you, you look like you've been a dog rolling around in the dirt—and if you think we're going to replace the clothes on your back because you can't keep them clean, you have another thought coming."  He glowered while Dudley snickered.    

Harry forced himself to unclench his fists.  "Sorry, sir," he said in a carefully expressionless voice.  He couldn't afford to antagonize his aunt and uncle with any smart comebacks about the sorry state his over-large shirt and shorts had been in when they had been given to him after Dudley was through with them; not if he wanted to eat tonight.  

"Well hurry up and wash yourself, then!" Aunt Petunia ordered.  "You're not bringing your dirt to our table."

Harry's felt the fist around his heart loosen despite her harsh excluding words.  _They're finally going to let me eat something, he thought.  He hurried into the hallway bathroom and soaped up his hands, quickly removing his glasses and scrubbing his face for good measure.  After a long period of numbness, his hunger had returned with full-force and he wasn't about to allow them any excuses to send him away from the table before he could eat his fill.  His heart pattered in his chest, his hands trembled; after going without food for two days his mind was completely focused on one overwhelming need: to feed his body.  He didn't realize that, as a growing six-year-old, he was literally starving._

Face flushed and hairline slightly damp from his scrubbing, which made his hair stand up in little cowlicks like a blackened halo, Harry fixed his glasses back on his nose and returned to the dining room.  He moved straight for his chair—and stopped.   

Sitting on Harry's plate was a glossy slab of some kind of maroon-colored meat gleaming unappetizingly as its juices pooled beneath it.  Next to it were two pieces of an unidentifiable white . . . something.  Grainy and porous, yet as white as Uncle Vernon's belly.  Harry had no idea what the odd-looking objects were, but a sense of premonition was tightening in his chest like a noose.  Whatever type of mystery "something" they were, he thought them among the foulest things he'd ever laid eyes on. 

Harry blinked, but the alien-looking stuff was still there, neatly arranged on the scallop-edged dinnerware with a decorative piece of parsley flourishing the hideous contents of the plate.  His eyes swung to the Dursleys' place settings and saw roasted chicken; creamed corn; steamed broccoli; creamy sweet potatoes, and golden, flaky butter rolls.  His mouth watered and he hovered uncertainly, biting his lip and looking at the already-seated Dursleys: Dudley giggling into his napkin; Uncle Vernon smug and pompous; and Aunt Petunia calm and straight-backed, her mouth curved into an uncharacteristically self-satisfied smirk.  

"Wh-what is that?" he stammered, staring at his plate.

Aunt Petunia's thin lips twitched and one eyebrow rose.  "That is your supper and you will be grateful for it.  Now, sit down."

Harry didn't budge; he was afraid he would bolt out the door if he moved an inch.  He had never seen anything so questionable looking in his life, and he was to _eat it?  The Dursleys had never done this before; besides the times when he had been given meager carrot sticks or slices of bread, he had always been given the same food as them, albeit in smaller portions, and this portion was larger than any portion he had ever been given.  He couldn't eat this, no matter how hungry he was.  He couldn't.  He unconsciously eased back a step . . ._

Aunt Petunia's head snapped up from buttering her roll, her sharp-eyed gaze freezing him on the spot.  "And just where do you think you're going?"

Dudley looked gleefully from his mum to Harry, his cheeks working as he chewed his chicken.  Uncle Vernon's chair creaked as he leaned back in impatience, a sizable amount of his sweet potatoes already missing from consumption.  "Quit standing there boy, and do as you're told!"

"I'm not hungry after all," Harry said in a low voice, improvising quickly.  "I think I'll just go to my cupboard now . . ." He could slip out the back door and over to Mrs. Figg's while they were eating, he thought, his mind working rapidly.

"Who do you think you are?" Aunt Petunia said stridently.  "You are going to sit down _right now and eat the food on your plate, you ungrateful brat!  You will sit down and eat, or you will stay in your cupboard until hell freezes over.  Now, __sit.  Down."_

It didn't take long for Harry to weigh his options, and he hesitated for only a moment before Uncle Vernon gave him a distinctly threatening look.  Harry stiffly sat in his chair.  Seated this close to the objects on his plate, a smell rose from them that made his stomach clench and he turned his head aside, repulsed.  

"Could I please have something else?" he asked quietly, desperation pushing him to say things he normally wouldn't have dared.  

Aunt Petunia placed her glass on the table with a bang, making Harry jump.  He was seated at her right and he couldn't help but lean back as she turned to him with a nasty smile.  "Oh no," she said in a hard tone, "I don't think so.  A certain Nurse Hawthorne informed me that you are grossly underweight.  You're a little runt that is the size of a child not quite five years old rather than six.  You are _abnormal."  _

Harry felt something around his heart tighten and harden; he heard every word spoken and saw Aunt Petunia's face twist with a strange combination of resentment and malice.  But as had happened before, he saw her from a great distance: as though she were sitting twenty feet away rather than two.  

Her words kept coming, battering their way inside his brain despite his efforts to block them out.  

"You're frail.  You have bones like a bird.  The iron in your blood is dangerously low."  A piece of paper materialized in her hand and she read from it: "Iron deficiency often accompanies low weight in children.  Excellent sources of iron include liver--" she broke off from reading the list, "and that is exactly what you are going to eat.  Liver," she pointed at the maroon slab with exaggerated patience veering wildly towards snide, "and _tripe to 'build up your poor immune system.'" her finger shifted to the pale chunks.  _

Aunt Petunia drew herself up and crumpled the paper.  "And that _woman," she hissed, trembling with self-righteous indignation, "had the __gall to suggest that we were not feeding you properly.  She actually suggested that we were doing something to stunt your growth!  Of all the nerve!  The sheer __embarrassment!__  It was bad enough having to lug you to that clinic when I had so many more important things to do, but then to be accused of not __caring for you properly--" _

"Nothing more outlandish has ever been spoken!" Uncle Vernon interrupted.  He looked extremely put out, but still managed to wash down his spoonful of corn with a hearty gulp of milk.  Dudley was gawking at his mum, shocked at her outburst: he had simply got a kick out of the idea of seeing Harry eat that rubbish while he had yummy, tasty food.

"After all we've done for you," Aunt Petunia continued with acute self-pity, while Harry, who had sat through her tirade in silence, stared at his lap.  "To be put in that position as she looked at me with those suspicious eyes—as though _I had done something wrong!  As though you weren't just naturally freakishly small!  As though your blood wasn't deprived __not because we are not giving you enough, but because you're a bloody--"  _

Breaking off abruptly, she collected herself with supreme effort and smoothed the hair at her temples with nervous flicks of her wrist, breathing deeply through her nose.

"Now no one can say that we are deficient in our care.  Now _no one can accuse us of not supplying a growing boy with properly nutritious meals," she sneered, spitting out the phrase 'growing boy.'  _

Uncle Vernon grunted in agreement.  "Eat, boy!  Eat!" he said in a cruel parody of a grandmother urging her grandson to help himself to more chocolate cake or stew.   

At this point, Harry was simply grateful that Aunt Petunia had stopped talking.  For what seemed the millionth time, he wished he were someplace else.  _Anyplace else.  Gritting his teeth, he picked up his knife and fork._

While the Dursleys resumed eating—Petunia still looking a bit flushed—Harry had a rather difficult time cutting his liver with his butter knife.  The Dursleys had never cut his food for him when he was younger, and he saw no reason why they would start now.  He lifted a corner of the organ off the plate and heard a sucking sound as it separated from the porcelain.

"Did you tell Daddy about your day, Duddikins?"

"Yes, Mummy."  Throwing a malicious smile Harry's direction, Dudley said, "I want some more sweet potatoes.  They're so _good," he groaned rapturously._

When Harry finally managed to cut a bite-size bit off, he found the liver to be not as bad as he had feared, but nowhere near what he would call tasty.  Aware of Aunt Petunia watching him out of the corner of her eye and studiously ignoring her, he stiffened his spine and ate it all.  His shrunken stomach roiled against the slippery intruder, and taking a deep breath he chanted to himself: _Do not be sick.  Do not __be sick._

"More chicken, Vernon darling?"

"Absolutely, Pet.  And might I say how delicious this new recipe is.  Melts in your mouth, doesn't it Dudders?"

Dudley grunted in agreement.

Once Harry turned his attention to the tripe he realized from the smell coming from it that he had saved the worst for last.  The white, fibrous chunks had cooled considerably as he had eaten the liver, and his first bite of the rubbery substance confirmed his fear that this was the foulest thing he had ever tasted.  He chewed and swallowed as quickly as he could, keeping a mental picture of himself locked up in his dark cupboard for days-on-end fixed firmly in his mind to give him motivation to keep eating_.  Pretend it's chicken, he whispered to himself even as he gagged and tried to hide it with his napkin.         
  _

"Would you mind terribly if I met the neighbor ladies for tea on Saturday, Vern?  I can leave a beef casserole in the fridge for you to heat up for lunch.  Patricia is bringing her precious new baby boy.  If she's lucky little Albert will turn out as fine a boy as our Dudders."  Aunt Petunia gave Dudley a fond smile.

It was on the fifth gag that Harry lost it, and at the last piece of tripe, too.  His stomach seemed to want to keep pushing the tripe back up his throat.  His eyes grew wide and he shoved his chair back in a panic—

And was sick on his shirt, trousers, and the dining room floor.

Harry's eyes burned from the reflex.  He shut them quickly as he heard the shrieks of outrage, and waited.  

All too soon, he felt a hard hand clamp around his upper arm and jerk him out of his seat.  He fell halfway onto the floor towards Uncle Vernon and heard bellowed cursing in disgust.

Vaguely aware of Aunt Petunia's nauseated exclamations behind him and Dudley's screams of "ewwww!  _Gross!" Harry was dragged quickly to the hallway where he was unceremoniously shoved through a doorway.  For a split-second he thought he was being forced outside—were the Dursleys really kicking him out for good?  But his knees painfully hit the floor before his belly collided with a familiar object with a __whoosh: his cot-bed._

Harry opened his eyes to darkness.  He was in his cupboard despite everything.  He should have known that there was no satisfying his family.  Why did he even try?  But he had to; to stop trying would put a stopper on his hopes, his dreams.  His identity.  He was too young to put such labels on these feelings, but they were there nevertheless.   

Harry pulled his filthy clothes off and was still for a moment, thinking.  He could still hear Uncle Vernon roaring and Aunt Petunia hollering in a high-pitched whine.  They were talking about him, of course, but he didn't pay attention to the words.  Remembering something, he hunkered down and reached underneath the cot.

Retrieving his bag of shells and rocks, he emptied out the contents onto the floor and shoved his clothes inside, tying the bag tightly at the top to keep the smell inside.  He then changed into his enormous pajamas and crawled underneath his blanket.

Harry stared into the darkness, worries about how long he would be forced to stay in his cupboard dominating his thoughts.  He tried to distract himself by imagining the sound of the water breaking on the sandy shore of that long ago and never-forgotten beach.  His last thought before his exhaustion claimed him was:

_I'll have to find a new bag for my shells.      _

Comforted at the thought of a task and a goal, he fell asleep.

***

Fin 


End file.
